Charit Creek

by D A Carey

  << Liz >>

  The trip through Texas was fairly uneventful. Liz would have been fine staying a few weeks to recuperate, yet she trusted Vince’s judgment. Christy and Mary had proven to be knowledgeable and entertaining traveling companions. Vince had asked Junior to move a few supplies to Gary’s truck behind them and ride with him, both to get to know the man and alleviate some of the space constraints. Vince wasn’t ready to trust the new man enough yet to allow one of the women to ride with him.

  Liz realized she was becoming more cautious or perhaps pessimistic like Vince. He called it being realistic, but the thought of getting too close to Dallas filled her with dread. When they made the easterly turn away from Dallas on Highway 22 at Hamilton, Texas, she could feel some of her stress drain away. Going under I-35 at Hillsboro was another stressful time, yet much like the trip down from Chicago last year, they handled it well by stopping in a secluded spot and allowing Vince to scout ahead before making the dash east.

  During the day, they’d seen people working their farms or outside their homes. Twice they had passed trucks that made a U-turn to follow. Each time Vince found a defensible position and without warning or apology fired on the pursuing vehicle. A few bullets through the grille or windshield usually convinced those people to try for easier prey. The AR-10 made a big boom and an even bigger hole. It would have been more concerning that they were making enemies if they weren’t going to be gone through this part of the country in a few hours.

  They approached Tyler, Texas, after changing routes in Corsicana and a brief detour around Athens on Highway 175. It was getting late, and the group chose to make camp. Liz and Vince had fallen into a good working rhythm by this time, and he never even questioned when she chose a spot not too far off their route on the banks of Lake Palestine, a short distance outside of Tyler.

  After they made camp, Junior took Vince aside to talk. Everyone in camp knew they were talking about Gary. It created a tension for everyone except Gary, who didn’t appear to mind. If Junior’s report was not positive, Gary could be exiled from the group, creating yet another enemy.

  The tension vanished when Vince walked over to Gary and shook his hand. “Junior thinks you’re all right, and I trust his judgment.”

  “Thanks, Junior.” Gary nodded in his direction. “Do you still have your doubts?” he asked, turning back to Vince.

  “Yep. It takes a lot to gain my trust. I’ll keep an eye on you for a long time. I don’t trust easy. If it makes you feel any better, I thought you were probably on the level from the beginning. I appreciate Junior validating my opinion.”

  “Thanks. So what can I do to help?”

  “You can start by pulling your truck and bedroll in closer for protection and then by digging a crude rocket stove pit for heat and cooking that can’t be seen from far off.”

  “I’m glad to be closer to the fire, but I don’t know what a rocket stove is.”

  “A small pit to hide the fire and a smaller pit a foot or so away with a connecting tunnel between both pits at the bottom. It feeds the main pit oxygen and burns hotter with less fuel and gives off less light and smoke.”

  “Sounds good. I’m on it.”

  Liz knew Vince preferred to sleep away from the fire in case they were attacked so he would be hidden in the shadows with his night vision intact. As weak as he was and as sound as he was sleeping while recovering from cancer surgery, Vince opted to change his routine and put his bedroll beside the tire of the Bronco, not far from the fire pit, as if he was becoming more accepting of his need to recover. Christy and Mary snuggled close for warmth, and Junior and Carol slept close, albeit with a gap in between them in a brother and sister kind of way. Gary was across the fire in his own military surplus sleeping bag.

  Liz had offered to take first watch since she couldn’t sleep. She’d learned to move slowly, stay in the shadows, and turn first her eyes and then her head to sounds before moving her body. Vince had taught her that most movement would be seen from your peripheral vision first and that if a guard was hidden in shadows and not moving, attackers would focus on the fire, giving the guard time to react in a deadly way.

  Vince was taking the last watch, or dog watch. He’d told her technically dog watch wasn’t always the morning watch but merely the last watch of the schedule. When Liz woke Carol for her turn and then snuggled against Vince, he didn’t protest, and no one else noticed except Carol. It made her feel safe to have his chest against her back, his rhythmic breathing against her neck and the musky scent of his body. It took her only moments to drift off to sleep.

  << Vince >>

  The next morning, Vince got the crew on the road early, taking Highway 49 north and then some back roads east until he could get on 155 heading northeast again. At Linden, Texas, Liz gave Vince directions to get on Highway 59. To avoid Texarkana and stay on back roads, Liz found a route east on 160 that later connected with Highway 29 heading northeast at Bradley, Arkansas. It was somewhere after Bloomburg, Texas, that they saw the sign on Highway 160 that they were crossing into Arkansas. They were due for a break, so the group stopped and shared a few of the precious beers given to them back at Turk-Town. The beers were warm, and crossing a state line was no special accomplishment in itself, but it was huge to them. They celebrated for a few minutes before getting back on the road.

  At Bradley, Arkansas, they switched to Highway 67 and continued east.

  “Vince, don’t you think it’s odd that we’ve come so far and not had to fight much?” Liz asked.

  “Shhhh, you’ll jinx us,” Vince teased. “But yeah, it’s been on my mind too. The only thing I can guess is that it hasn’t been long since the EMP hit and things are a lot more spread out here. Country people are good folks by and large. I figure most are just trying to survive.”

  “Probably so...” Liz said.

  “I don’t think it can stay this good for long. People will take charge, some good and some bad, like Big Jim. One thing we’ve learned as a people is that power corrupts. Some of those bad leaders will keep taking more and more liberties until they act like an old fashioned baron. The only thing that will hold them in check is if we can restore order soon. If we don’t, people will have to band together to overthrow a tyrant. This is exactly the kind of situation the Second Amendment was written for. The good thing is that in this part of the country people hold dear to the right to bear arms, and that should make it harder for a tyrant to gain a foothold. Fewer bad guys banding together because of armed citizens may be part of the reason our travel has gone well so far.”

  “Why could Big Jim get a foothold?”

  “He corrupted what my uncle built. He pretended to be one of the good guys, using our walls and security to subvert something noble and make it something evil. By the time people caught on to him, his position of strength was too great to be easily challenged.”

  “What will we do?”

  “First, get word to my uncle Dave. He has the resources to make a difference.”

  “What about the local people? If they are armed, won’t they eventually take care of him on their own?”

  “I expect that sooner or later they will have had enough of him and make a change. For now, he has such a head start and a good defensive position, it would be costly for them. If we can provide them some help, that would be better.”

  As it was getting late, Liz found a state park that looked like a good spot to camp, so they headed east on Highway 299 to White Oak Lake State Park. Vince found a secluded spot beside the lake, well off the beaten path. They saw other campers in the park, but most were trying to avoid each other, and the night passed without incident.

  The next morning, the group huddled over the maps to firm up their route. In an effort to stay south of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Vince decided to take Highway 79 east and cross the Arkansas River a fair distance south of the larger cities at Pendleton before heading northeast on 165, which later became Highway 1. Expressway underpasses, overpasses, and bridges w
ere always the most dangerous part of their journey. The further east they got, the denser the population and the greater their risk. Vince believed that if the country east of the Mississippi had power and law, the area just west of that would attract some of the worst of the criminal element like the badlands of the old days. They were in that territory now and had to be on triple alert.

  Further east, the terrain gradually turned greener from the browns it had been in Arizona, New Mexico, and much of Texas. Moreover, the horizons were shorter due to the hills and the trees. While the tactical side of Vince lamented the decreased visibility, another part of him sensed he was getting closer to his part of the country and the terrain he was most comfortable in.

  It was dark when they neared the Mississippi River. Vince didn’t want to blunder into a roadblock, gang, or unstable bridge, so they stopped for the night at the Saint Francis National Forest. From there, they could rest and scout the approach to Memphis, getting the lay of the land before going in. Vince wanted to listen to the radio and try to talk to some of the locals if possible.

  Some of the group wanted to go straight into Memphis. Vince’s experience had taught him that an ounce of caution could save lives. He also didn’t want to admit to the group how truly worn out he was. Liz was aware, yet she hadn’t said much aside from urging him to let her take a turn at driving from time to time. Being weak grated on Vince a great deal.

  The more he studied the route, the more uneasy Vince felt about a crossing directly into Memphis, and the more convinced he became that he wanted to cross the Mississippi on Highway 49 near the Isle of Capri Hotel and Casino if his scouting trips confirmed it was safe. From there, they could take Highway 61 north to Memphis or 278 east to avoid the big city.

  The hope was that things would be civilized by then and they could buy gas and call loved ones to assure them they were safe.

  Power Corrupts

  “Only a virtuous people are capable of freedom. As nations become corrupt and vicious, they have more need for masters.”

  - Benjamin Franklin

  << Luke >>

  Life settled into a routine at the FEMA camp in the parking garage. Some people worked hard manual labor. While some tasks were necessary, like gardening, security, and unloading barges, others made little sense. The most onerous of those tasks were the people who were handed a sledgehammer and told to trudge up as many as thirty flights of stairs to knock down walls and roofs of some nearby building. Some men would be given an acetylene torch to cut away beams, while others swung sledgehammers at brick, wood, and concrete all day long. Guards with guns were there to make sure those men didn’t take many breaks. The men tossed whatever debris they created out the windows and down on the street below, where other men loaded up wheelbarrows and took it wherever the guards directed.

  None of the men were engineers, and collapses and deaths were common. Of all the work tasks a parker could be assigned, the building destruction crews duties made the least sense unless you knew that if you complained or committed some infraction, you ended up on those crews.

  It was clear the FEMA/DHS camp leadership had no concerns of reprimand or prosecution, and they planned to be here for the long term. If they succeeded in actually leveling these buildings, which seemed a preposterous task, they would clear a perimeter around the camp against any attacking force.

  Occasionally, a military recruiter came by the garages among the parkers. He made a strong argument that the nation was at war and needed soldiers. Sergeant Penders told Luke that they would stop asking for volunteers soon and just draft who they wanted. Among the parkers were a lot of patriots who would have volunteered if they trusted their government or could be sure their families would be safe when they left the garage. There was scant information via radio or TV. Some of the parkers had handheld radios, and occasionally they could receive AM stations, though when the radios were found, they were confiscated. Luke dared ask Sergeant Penders why and got a dangerous stare that taught him how a mouse would feel under the gaze of an owl. He was learning that he shouldn’t question some things here. Yesterday the professor had allowed the floor coordinators to come to a conference room in the Galt House Waterfront Plaza to watch the news. What they got was news produced at the CNN station by their anchors and written by FEMA and DHS leaders. Surprisingly, it wasn’t much different than it had been a few months prior to the EMP strike.

  Going to the conference room for news, Luke was reminded that the local FEMA and DHS leaders had cushy rooms in the first few floors of the Galt House hotel. The facility had massive generators that ran a few times a day for refrigeration, AC, and occasionally an elevator ride to the roof. Common workers had to use the stairs. It was widely known that if you were a pretty girl, or sometimes a boy, you could get out of working by taking a shift in the comfort rooms. To Luke’s knowledge, no one was forced. They didn’t have to be; they were hungry. What was most depressing was the haughty attitude of privilege on display by the women who spent a lot of time working in those rooms or visiting the leaders’ suites. It was easy to tell who those women were and how their values had been warped. They were clean and smelled good when they walked back to a double parking space in the garages or, if they were very good, a small room in the hotel shared with a few other women. They didn’t have the appearance of always being hungry, and their clothes were clean. More than one person had called them out on their betrayal, only to find themselves assigned to the high rise sledgehammer team.

  What was most frustrating to Luke was the fact that there were hundreds of rooms in the Galt House, probably enough for all the parkers to have a space of their own. While they may not have had water and electricity, their living conditions would have been better. The only reason Luke could see for housing them in the garages was to keep them “in their place” and control them like serfs. It was clear there was a definite class system here that was becoming permanent. It made life almost unbearable for the husband or father of a pretty girl. The pressure of the girls to bring back food to their families and for their men to allow it was sad.

  << Cindy >>

  Cindy made her way to the Galt House area occupied by the FEMA and DHS leadership. Along the way, she encountered guards who did little to challenge her. Security was lax since they didn’t expect trouble. Pretty women were not uncommon in this area, and stopping one who was favored by one of the leaders could result in discipline, so she was easily passed through. When she found him, he was working in an atrium-style room that connected the two Galt House towers and contained a bar she remembered used to hold real fish in a glass counter. The professor had set up a desk with his back to the old concession kitchen so he could face out to the river. A line of people were waiting their turn to be ushered up to the area he used to hold court.

  She was stopped well short of the busy man by a small man full of his own self-importance. “I’m sorry, you simply cannot meet with Director Middleton. He doesn’t meet with the parkers. You’ll have to go through your floor guard if you have a complaint.”

  For a moment, Cindy was confused. She’d never known the man’s name; Luke only ever referred to him as “the professor.”

  “I don’t have a complaint, merely a question. I’m sure he will allow me a few minutes. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.”

  “No, ma’am, you don’t understand. The director does not see parkers.” The little man’s scorn was evident.

  “Do you intend to have me thrown out and create a scene?” Cindy asked in her most haughty tone.

  The little man blanched as Cindy knew he would. “Well, ahh, no.” The man was clearly out of his element, nervously glancing around for someone else to help him with this woman.

  “I’ll go sit by the old birdcages in the middle of the atrium. I can see the director is busy. If you have a moment, please let him know that Mrs. Whitner would like a moment of his time.” Cindy moved off to sit in clear view of the director.

  Sometime later, she saw the
professor motion the man over and speak to him, gesturing toward her. Cindy was deflated when the professor went back to work and continued seeing other people.

  As night fell and the atrium room began to get dark, Cindy was about to give up and head back to the garage when the professor’s assistant approached her and said without making eye contact, “The director will see you now.”

  When she approached the director, before she could utter a word, he said, “You do know parkers are not allowed in this area, right? You could be put on a work detail for this breach of rules.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m learning the rules. I came because I’m concerned for my children and want to find some way to help them.”

  “What’s the matter with your children?” he said sharply. “I wasn’t informed of any injuries to children.”

  “They aren’t injured. I’m just worried for their health in that dank garage and with low rations. It’s also important to me to continue their education. Surely among the leadership here you all have families with similar concerns?”

  “We have many families here and a classroom for those children. That’s the equivalent of homeschooling, which can be done in the garages as well.”

  “We don’t have school books or supplies, and I don’t think the garage is the best place for kids to learn. If we could have a classroom up here and access to some of the educational books, that would be a godsend,” Cindy pleaded.